


these borderlines we cross

by scenotaphs (bellmare)



Category: Persona 4
Genre: (too bad the ust remainst unsolved forever), Community: badbadbathhouse, F/M, Genderswap, Rule 63, and nobody ate dinner that night, caught in a bad romance, don't you dare pity me, ust everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellmare/pseuds/scenotaphs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're running on empty and she still smiles like it's nothing and says everything's fine -- and that's when the cracks show and he can see right through her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these borderlines we cross

He’s worried.

 

He’s worried about stupid, impulsive ( _lonely_ ) Shiori, because he doesn’t know what she’ll do if this drags on any longer.

 

The thing is, she’s too good at hiding, too good at keeping things bottled up. In Heaven, there’s no way of telling she’s feeling anything but calm, save for the fact that when he stands close enough to her, he can feel her shoulders shaking, just a little. If he looks carefully enough, her face betrays small signs of her anger ( _despair_ ), and when she straightens up from ripping keys and teeth and threads and whatnot from defeated shadows she will look right past him, biting her lip as she tries to gauge the distance from their present point to the end of the floor, as she tries to mentally calculate how much further they can all go before they’re running on fumes and they’re too tired to figure out when too risky is too risky, when enough is enough—and then her gaze refocuses and she smiles that tight, controlled smile, and mouths, _I’m fine_.

 

Yeah, right. She isn’t fooling anyone—not Teddie, even with his limited understanding of human emotions, who always looks at her nowadays like she’s going to explode any second, who always sticks extra-close to her like an oversize kitten around her legs and tugs gently at her arm when he thinks she’s pushing them ( _herself_ ) too hard. Not even her friends from around school, who sometimes stop her at the hallways and ask how she’s doing, that she doesn’t look so good; friends who can see past her easy grin to take in the ashen complexion and empty reassurances.

 

On the eleventh of November, he finally musters up the courage to go to her house. It’s been less than two hours since they staggered out of the T.V., bruised and exhausted, but he can’t force from his mind the persistent, niggling thoughts about what it would be like to return alone to a house that’s cold and empty, what it will be like to lie in bed with nothing for company but the beat of rain against the windows, the roar of thunder rattling the roof.

 

The seconds slip by. Rain trickles from the ends of his hair down the back of his neck and between his shoulderblades. He knocks again, hoping the food from Aiya he bought is still warm—Yosuke doesn’t trust his cooking skills, though that’s something he’ll never admit to anyone, most of all Chie.

 

“Hey—Shiori!”

 

He’s sure she’s home—where else can she go? “No, don’t answer that,” he mutters to himself, forcefully banishing all thoughts of the Samegawa river. Instead, his hand settles on the doorknob and he stares down at it, before pushing slowly. The door swings open without resistance, and he’s confronted by the image of a darkened house, the only light pooling on the landing, likely coming from upstairs.

 

Okay. Okay.

 

When he sheds his shoes, the floorboards are cold, even through his socks. The stairs creak as he makes his way up. The hallway light burns brightly, but what flickering brightness it gives isn’t enough to chase away the shadows in the rooms.

 

He remembers coming up here months ago. He remembers being embarrassed and uneasy and Shiori laughing as she leads him into her room and shows him the wonky mechas she makes, the strings of origami cranes she hangs in her dresser after they start taking up too much room on her worktable.

 

After a moments’ hesitation, he makes his way towards the only one with a closed door, and pushes.

 

There’s nothing there—but the light plays off of irregular surfaces at strange levels, glinting off of curves of polished metal and jags of broken glass. Yosuke shifts the takeout bags to his other hand and flicks the switch.

 

It’s a completely different story with the lights on. It’s certainly Shiori’s room, sure, but it’s nothing like the one he saw before. It looks as though a storm has ravaged it—books and clothes and plundered shadow parts lie strewn across the floor in a bizarre mosaic; a rack lies on its side, delicate origami cranes crushed under the frame, folded wings bent out of shape. Her sofa lies on its back in the middle of the floor, a blanket thrown over the seats, cushions spilling over the rug.

 

The first thought that crosses his mind is, _shit, she’s strong, when did she get strong enough to push that over?_

 

The second is something less rational and far more primal, a dull throb of fear which takes root in his gut as he steps into the room, mindful of the shards of glass which glitter like frost underfoot. He has to swallow several times over before he can pronounce her name and when it comes out it’s more like he’s choking it out, unable to breathe past a lump in his throat. “Shiori?”

 

The blanket-wrapped bulge on the sofa shifts; a skinny hand claws its way out of the tangled fabric, pushing it back far enough for him to see her eyes, faded and grey and overbright. She’s still wearing her glasses, one of the lenses filmed with blood. “Uncle, I—”

 

He feels horrible for not turning away, for watching as she cuts herself off and only stares at him, cheeks pale. The only colour on her face is on her lips, and he immediately feels awful for thinking about kissing her, for thinking about wanting to kiss his best friend when she’s down and out like this. “Uh, h-hey.”

 

“Yosuke.”

 

Her disappointment cuts through him. Her fingernails are gummy with congealed blood. For a wild instant, his gaze whips to her wrists, but the skin there is clean and unblemished. She smiles tiredly – but there’s no spirit there – and flops back down on the couch, breath whooshing softly from her lungs. He takes an opportunity to glance around the room again, and immediately hates himself for it – for prying, for looking, but most of all, for not coming earlier. Her Yasogami blazer droops from a chest of drawers on which it was carelessly thrown, the fabric shredded around the edges, stiff with dark patches of flaking red; pens and balled scraps of paper line the walls, and everything smells stale, like she hasn’t been bothering to open the windows or doors for days.

 

He wonders how he could have missed her, how he didn’t see her feet hanging over the upturned edge, or the ends of her messy hair – stained pink, _oh god did the wound really cut that far?_ – spilling over the back of the sofa.

 

“Are you. Um. I, uh. What happened?”

 

She rests an arm over her eyes, glasses squashed painfully against her face. “I just haven’t been cleaning for a while.”

 

Shiori’s always been good at reassuring others, and he could almost believe her, except he’s standing in the proof of her mental state. “I don’t think so,” he grits out; his words come out far sharper than he intended.

 

He expects her to bristle, to snap at him or order him out. Her silence is the worst answer he could have gotten.

 

“I got you some dinner. Figured, you know, you wouldn’t feel like cooking.” Yosuke sets down the bags awkwardly, plastic crinkling. “Doesn’t hold a flame to your stuff, though.”

 

If he looks to his right, he can make out the glint of her glasses and the pale shine of her eyes from within the cocoon of blankets. Shiori makes a sound almost like a hum, and if he closes his eyes he can believe she sounds normal.

 

“Thanks.”

 

She stands, sliding from her uncomfortable seat on the upended sofa. With her face framed by her loose hair and mussed bangs, she looks younger, far more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her before.

 

It hurts to see the strongest person he knows crumble before his eyes.

 

“Thanks,” she repeats, and he tears his eyes away from her slim calves. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“What?” He jumps to his feet as well, feeling some tiny degree of satisfaction at being able to tower over her, even if it isn’t by much. “You think I’m just going to go, after seeing you like … like _this_?”

 

Her expression hardens and she crosses her arms, jaw set. “I’m fine. I was fine like this for the past week, so what makes you think I can’t deal with things right now?”

 

“You _haven’t_ been dealing with things!” He’s mortified at the way her eyes narrow and her brows knit when he raises his voice, but he can’t back down, not now of all times. “I bet you haven’t even been eating – or – or taking care of yourself!”

 

“There’s no need to worry about me,” Shiori snarls, and she’s wearing that closed, brittle look again. “We’re going back into the T.V. tomorrow. Good ni—”

 

“Look, just. Stay with me, okay? Until we rescue Nanako. My parents’ll—they’ll understand. They know who you are and they know about … about Dojima-san and all. They won’t mind.”

 

She’s breathing hard, fingers clenched into fists. Yosuke’s not sure if he can bring himself to stop her if she _does_ choose to hit him—this isn’t some friendly brawl like they had at the riverbank, and besides, what sort of friend would he be if he hit back?

 

“Please. Come on, everyone’s worried about you. If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else. Rise or Chie or Yukiko. Kanji kick my ass  if he finds out I left you alone after coming here tonight. Teddie will smother me in my sleep. Naoto will help them hide the evidence and bury my body. _Please_.”

 

Her mouth twitches, just a little. Then—

 

She lets out a little sigh, perhaps of defeat, perhaps of irritation, who knows, and lets the blanket drop from around her shoulders. She’s still wearing her uniform underneath, only it’s creased and heavily lined as though she’s been sleeping in it. “All right,” she says, and her voice is back to its earlier flat, neutral register. “One night. Then I’ll start cleaning up and doing the laundry and stocking the fridge tomorrow.”

 

.

 

Out of all the things he’s thought up, inviting Shiori over to his house might just be one of the dumbest things he’s done.

 

Sure, his parents are out – for their annual regional meetings or something or another, he doesn’t really know or care – but what will everyone say if they found out he’s got a girl staying with him? It’s one thing to ruin his own reputation – as if it wasn’t fucked to begin with – but it’s another to trash hers as well, especially after what she’s already built up for herself.

 

They eat dinner in a silence so overwhelming, it feels deafening. He’s famished but has a hard enough time forcing the food down when he has to keep an eye on Shiori, to make sure she’s eating and not actually pushing her meal around her bowl like – like a child, and then he stops that train of thought because it makes him think of Nanako and how upset she’d be if she sees her Big Sis like this. They wash the dishes and throw out the trash in the same, stilted silence, until Yosuke feels like he’s going to go crazy unless he says something soon.

 

“Um, the shower’s over there. And y-you can have my room, I’ll take the couch.”

 

Shiori gives him another one of her looks, and nods.

 

Even with another person in the house, it’s quiet – but then and again, it’s only to be expected, Shiori’s a champion at not making much noise; even so, it’s a comfortable sort of silent, not the dead, oppressive kind he felt earlier. He wonders how she manages to get any sleep at all.

 

He’s flicking through channels in the living room when she returns, hair lying in limp, damp waves against her shoulders. It’s weird how girls can wear anything and not look, well, _bad_ , because Yosuke knows that if he tried to pair an oversize sweater with shorts he’s going to look like the most stupid thing in the world. Hell, Rise always pokes fun at him for his own wardrobe – nothing is wrong with owning a pair of red jeans, no matter what she says – but he doesn’t see her doing the same to Shiori, who’s all coordinated in monochrome, day in, day out.

 

“Sorry,” he squawks, shutting off the T.V. and averting his eyes from her at the same time.

 

“For what?”

 

“Um.” He gestures helplessly at the T.V.—the last thing she needs is being reminded of Nanako, or the fact that she’s still stuck in her dungeon—and tries not to note the way the light plays off of the curve of her neck. “You know. The T.V. Everything.”

 

“It’s nothing.” Yosuke nearly stops breathing when she sits down beside him on the couch, slouching moodily against the seat. This close, it’s easier to see the dark circles under her eyes, the tiredness which makes her mouth curl downwards, the helix piercings he never knew she had. The only thing which hasn’t changed from before is the way she can just stare at things like they’re the centre of her world—she’s got that same unwavering gaze which makes him shiver just remembering what it was like when she first looked at him and smiled and said, _you’re important to me, too_.

 

“Do you play?” she asks, jolting him from his thoughts.

 

“Uh?”

 

Shiori jerks her head a little, nodding towards the grand piano at the side of the room. “Do you play any instruments?”

 

In a way, he’s relieved—relieved that she’s still got enough in her to carry a normal conversation, relieved that she’s gone and broken the awkward silence, relieved that at least if she does anything stupid he won’t be too far off. “Sure. I’m better with the guitar than the piano, though. My mom wasn’t too happy about it, but it’s better than nothing. What about you?”

 

She doesn’t blink. “A little. Nanako wanted to learn when she found out I played. I promised to teach her.”

 

“O-oh, er.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. Yosuke mentally kicks himself for asking a question which might have brought up Nanako—but if that’s so, doesn’t that mean everything he says has the potential to be taken badly? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Maybe he should just stop talking.

 

Shiori startles him with a soft laugh which sounds more like she’s choking back a sob. “Hey, maybe we could duet sometime. Should be fun, hmm?”

 

“Y-yeah.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. He watches as she gets to her feet and pads towards the piano, fingertips dancing over the glossy wood.

 

“May I?”

 

He blinks at her. “Sure?”

 

She smiles a little and sits, lifting the lid. She looks far more at home in front of a piano than he ever did. He’s not sure what to do, and settles for making his way over to her and nudging her side. “Move over?”

 

Shiori shifts and lets him sink down next to her. He knows he’s said as much many times before – to her face, no less – but she’s got nice hands—artist’s hands, pianist’s hands, with long, slender fingers, now calloused from months of handling a sword. “Ha, I was totally on the money when I said you were good with your hands. What’re you going to play?”

 

He’s gratified at the faint, sidelong smile she gives him as she shrugs, shoulders rolling languidly. “Don’t know. Something I heard from the internet a while ago, I guess.”

 

She starts out with something furious and fast, something which makes him think of being in the dungeons and running with his heart pounding in his mouth, geez, this is the sort of stuff that will wake the neighbours and make them complain—and then she switches to the first notes of something else. It’s sort of sad, sort of wistful, and – oh god, she’s started singing, he never knew she had such a good singing voice, either. He’s heard her in many different ways, many different times – shouting orders in battle, muttering answers in class, mimicking peoples’ voices to be a jerk, but never like this.

 

“ … please take me far away from here—that’s my only desire.”

 

Yosuke isn’t sure what’s weirder—the fact that his best friend is singing to him of all people, or the fact that he has no idea what she’s talking about and, goddamn it, it’s sort of scary when he stops and listens to what she’s actually saying. He recognises this song, because it’s something he downloaded ages ago but would never admit to anybody, and come on, he never imagined in a million years he would ever hear Shiori singing, and to him to boot.

 

“What are—” She cuts him off so suddenly his brain just screeches to a halt when she grabs him by his shirtfront and pulls him towards her and then her mouth crashes onto his and as horrible as he feels, it’s also really, really great to be kissing a girl, an actual girl only it’s all sorts of awkward because, god, what is he thinking, this is his best friend, he’ll never be able to look her in the eye ever again and he’s getting so hard it’s embarrassing—

 

“Shiori—” He winces as what she was playing is ruined by his hand slapping against the piano keys, a keening, discordant cacophony screeching the air—and then she’s standing and dragging him up with her and she’s reaching around behind him and fiddling with the lid prop—

 

“Give me a hand,” she breathes against his cheek, and he half-turns to help her lower the lid, god, what the hell are they doing, what is she thinking?

 

“Shi—” He doesn’t know if he’s about to say swear or say her name when her tongue slips into his mouth and he promptly stops thinking as she pushes him back against the piano lid, knocking the music rack over with a crash.

 

Her eyes are dark with arousal – but eerily empty of expression – as she tugs at his pants and works them down with his boxers and pulls away just enough to press her face against the side of his neck, licking a long stripe from his ear to his collarbone.

 

“I-I, I don’t have—” he manages, but Shiori nips at his earlobe and pulls something from her shorts pocket, geez, did she really—?

 

She snakes her hands under his shirt and rakes her nails lightly against his skin, and, siht, it feels better than anything he’s ever imagined to have her hands, her pianists’ hands on him even if they’re rough and not at all soft like any other girl’s hands would be—

 

He almost collapses over her when she laps at him, tongue running over his shaft, clutching desperately at the first thing within reach—the edge of the piano. God, this is so weird and so wrong, it’s like he’s taking advantage of her by not telling her to stop, at this rate he’s hardly even better than those creeps who slip drugs into girls’ drinks—

 

Moving too quickly, too confidently, she rips the tiny foil packet and slips something between her teeth and then she’s unrolling the condom over his length in one swift motion before standing, eyes hooded. She curls an arm around his neck and pulls him close, content to remain that way until his chest has stopped heaving and he can finally look straight again.

 

“We-we shouldn’t,” Yosuke manages in a voice which doesn’t sound anything like him, weak and strangled and unconvincing to his own ears, but Shiori only smiles.

 

He’s never really allowed himself to dwell on how good-looking she is because, well, she’s his friend and she’s sort of out-of-bounds, isn’t she? Only it’s hard to think about that when she’s got her forehead pressed against his and is looking at him with that same distant calm and one sleeve of her stupid too-big sweater’s sliding down her shoulder and he can make out something black and lacy underneath—

 

Following his line of sight, the corner of her mouth quirks into something resembling a smile as she untangles her hands from his and sheds the sweater even before he’s finished processing how cold and empty his hands suddenly feel, and—oh.

 

She’s wearing nothing underneath but a camisole of some kind – black lace and polka-dotted silk, she must have planned this, she definitely planned this – and when she sheds her shorts, he finds out it’s a matching set and, seriously, his brain is short-circuiting and he’s certain there’s no blood left in his head at this point because everything has migrated down south despite the fact that he keeps trying to tell himself this is the last thing they should be doing—

 

Instead, he leans forward, pinning her against the cool black surface of the piano lid – who cares if it breaks, nobody in his family plays the damn thing, anyway – and pushes the hem of the camisole up—perhaps too slowly for her liking, because Shiori only grabs his hands and eases them up, until he’s cupping her breasts, only he’s still looking at her, taking in the expanse of pale skin marked with the scars from their months fighting shadows.

 

“Beautiful,” he mumbles against her skin, lapping at her breast as she arches up towards his mouth, hands tangled in his hair. “God, I should’ve said this before, you-you’re so beautiful and I don’t want you to be anyone else’s.”

 

Shiori’s hands tighten and then she’s yanking him up kissing him again, only this time she’s breathing shallowly as well, as though she’s lost some of that rigid control—which is good, because in a way part of the reason this is happening is because she’s out of sorts and needs to vent and maybe this would be a good way, god, he doesn’t even know. “Come on,” she murmurs into his mouth as she wraps her arms around his neck, nails biting into his skin. “Come on, don’t make me wait for you again.”

 

When she says that, he can’t help but feel guilty because he really did make her wait—nearly a whole week, before he finally went to her place and saw for himself what kind of state she was in. “I’m sorry,” he gasps as she reaches between them and grasps him, “I’m so sorry for not being there for you … earlier.”

 

Yosuke has no idea when she shed her panties, isn’t sure when he stopped feeling weird about the fact that he’s kind of fine with the idea of having sex with his best friend to take her mind off of things—the only thing that matters is the fact that he’s easing into her and she’s gripping his arms hard enough to bruise, that they’re doing it on his piano of all places, that he wants to touch her hair, silver against black, and breathe in the scent of his own soap and shampoo on her skin. “Does it hurt?”

 

She gazes up at him with half-lidded eyes and shakes her head, cheeks spotted with colour – she’s no longer pale and hollow as death—she’s warm and alive and breathing and it feels so good to be so close to her, even if he’s felt guilty about fantasising about her all these months. Yosuke pushes experimentally and her hips roll as she jerks up towards him, nails scraping against his wrists and he splays his hands, letting her slide her fingers between his.

 

Sure, it’s nothing like how he’s imagined it to be—he’s almost ashamed at how awkward he is but Shiori never says anything, only closes her eyes and clutches tightly at him and wraps her legs around his waist, urging him on as he tries to find a rhythm, only each and every time he loses track as she clenches around him and claws at the backs of his hands while he licks and nips at her breasts, and inches up her chest and neck and kisses her clumsily until he’s sure he’ll never forget the way she tastes on his tongue. He’s content with letting her set the rhythm—she claws at him and digs her nails into his temples and snarls, _faster_ and he will try to match her as she rises to meet him, just like when she loosens her grip and cups his face in her hands and murmurs, _slower_ and he will ease into her as gently as he can even though every nerve in his brain is screaming at him to pick up the pace.

 

“Into the deeps of my heart, do you want to know what I have there?” she whispers when he leans in close, straining to hear what she’s saying. “The darkest of my desires, can you see it’s filling me up everywhere?”

 

She isn’t so much as singing as she’s just speaking the lyrics, but Yosuke’s certain she didn’t choose it by accident—this point only gets hammered home when she closes her eyes and breathes in a deep, shuddering breath, letting her head fall back against the piano. “Please take me far away, so far … my Romeo.”

 

Like with everything she does, Shiori is almost silent when she comes, curling up against him as her grip slackens and tightens around his hands, bangs limp against her forehead. The only sign which alerts him to the fact is the way she strains against him and then stops moving, panting and shaking, and then she’s releasing his hands and cupping his cheeks, gently urging him down and kissing him as he comes. This time, there’s no teeth and no desperate frustration—only an overwhelming gentleness he’s never felt from her before, and then he’s shuddering over her, whispering her name over and over like a metronome— _Shiori, Shiori, Shiori._

 

They remain like that for a while, just listening to the hammering of their hearts in their chests; Shiori’s hand drops from his face and lands on the keyboard, knuckles brushing against the keys as she aimlessly presses some of them, tapping out irregular notes which break the silence between them. At length, she squirms against him and then Yosuke remembers he’s probably squashing her and scrambles off, sliding out of her.

 

“You should get cleaned up,” she says matter-of-factly, still motionless against the piano lid. “I’ll go after you.”

 

“No,” he manages to cough out, reasonably proud of the fact that he can still speak. “Ladies first.”

 

He’s somewhat grateful for the annoyed look she flashes him, for the idle shooing motion she makes with the hand not pawing at the keyboard. When he returns, she’s seated cross-legged along the edge with her shorts and sweater back on, sliding off when he approaches.

 

God, he’ll never be able to look at her the same way again. Yosuke ducks his head as she moves, but he can still feel her fingers against his wrist as she brushes past, can still feel her breath against his ear as she tiptoes and kisses him chastely on the cheek.

 

“Thanks,” she says quietly, and he can almost sense a smile in her voice. “… partner.”

 

By the time he can look up again, she’s gone. When he curls up on the sofa and tries to forget everything that happened between them, she touches his shoulder, light as butterflies, and pulls him back towards his room. He falls asleep with his chin tucked against the curve of her neck and shoulder, the ends of her hair tickling his nose.

 

.

 

In the morning, Yosuke wakes to find himself squashed against the wall. There’s nobody in the room besides him; the only signs of Shiori’s presence is the lingering scent of lilies-of-the-valley and a creased pillow.

 

Downstairs, he finds her at the kitchen table nursing a mug of black tea, already dressed in her uniform. She looks no different from usual—as though they didn’t sleep together the night before, as though they never did the horizontal tango on his piano, as though he never gave her physical comfort all her emotional stresses. For a moment, she just stares at him whilst he scratches the back of his neck, feeling his ears heat up.

 

“Um.”

 

“I’m sorry for imposing on you last night,” she begins, fiddling with the string of her teabag.

 

Yosuke tears his eyes away from her hands, instinctively blurting out the first thing which comes to mind. “We-we’re still … friends, right? I mean, let’s … let’s not be … awkward.”

 

Something passes across her face, so quickly it’s gone by the time he realises it was even there in the first place—he sees it in the fleeting shadow which darkens her eyes, in the flat, measuring look she gives him, in the way she bites her lip, as though disappointed. God, he’s so stupid, stupid, stupid, and now they’ll never get beyond all this uncertain fumbling and dancing around and it’s all his fault for not manning up enough to ask her to, _fuck, it sounds so dumb_ , to be his.

 

“Sure,” Shiori agrees at last, too calmly, too easily, as though she hasn’t just shot down his every hope and stands in a single swift, fluid motion. “Sure we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bluh bluh, for [this](http://badx2bathhouse.livejournal.com/543.html?thread=769311#t769311) prompt on the Persona 4 kink meme:
> 
>  
> 
> _So, Yosuke / genderbent!Souji (preferably by a different name, maybe Souko), sex on a piano._
> 
>  
> 
> _([to this video](http://youtube.com/watch?v=OhQ6GQW2lA8&feature=related))_
> 
>  
> 
> _It would be even more amazing if genderbent!Souji was playing this song on the piano while wearing the polka-dot lingerie and made Yosuke all hot and bothered._


End file.
